Sunday, October 18, 2015
The view is not unlike any other battlefield the Dark Lord had ever seen before. The smell on the other hand... The difference is the stench of Cold Iron and the burning bite of Steel. Keon closes his eyes, fighting past the pain eating through his personal magik to the blank plain deep within. A small breath of relief escapes his lips when the familiar nothingness envelopes his mind. A cold smile touches his lips, curving them slightly.
He stretches his neck, feeling tight muscles pop. Magik floods over him in a sheen of sickly green. He opens his eyes and turns to Mortuis. Gone is the Merry Minstrel,the Boon Companion. What stands before the Good Doctor is someone few have seen and even fewer have survived. The timbre of his voice is as dead as the dark depths of the Dark Lord's eyes.
"Is all in readiness, Master Sorcerer?"
Mortuis assesses the Fae Lord. Haloed in a whirlwind of yellow-green eldritch energies, the man's flesh resembles an oily spill. His eyes are shrunken to pinpoints, upper lip curled back in a feral smile. the Minstrel is overlaid - perhaps overwhelmed? - by the Assassin, Mab's own Right Hand of Death. But, because of the bond between them, Mortuis can Feel that Keon is not utterly lost to them. He's still there, just subsumed for the moment in the rising tide of dark magic.
"The engine was backed up the tracks a good mile." He adjusts his gloves, tugging the cuffs to snug the leather encasing his hands. "Wish assured me it will not interfere with your own casting." Keon nods once. "I have picked my spot to send most of the iron. Much of it, but not all. Can you open a Gate to these coordinates?"
Mortuis rattles off longitude and latitude. Keon takes a deep breath and holds his hands outward. He moves them slowly, gracefully. The Gate that forms is unlike any the Sorcerer has seen before. An eerie mist swirls upwards. It dances, a demented flame of yellow and green, shot through with black, purple, and blood red. Keon turns his dead gaze to his companion.
"Naught and None await beyond. 'Tis clear for the nonce."
Words are muttered, head bows, arms stretch wide, and hands beckon. Loose shrapnel gathers, rising into a trembling cloud. It slowly drifts away, drawn to the swirling Gate. As the first bits of iron and steel disappear into the flames, the Magicks merge. A wind rages through the haze of metal, twisting and tugging it into a whirlwind. The metal shards disappear nearly as fast as Mortuis can collect it. Within twenty minutes only bits and pieces flash through the gate.
The men drop their castings simultaniously. Both breathe deep, regathering their strength before the next stage.